I finally made it to the gym today, and after tromping on the treadmill for awhile, I switched over to my second favorite form of exercise after swimming – rowing.  This also comes from my growing up in Illinois on the lake.  We had a rowboat of course, and when I was about 12 years old I was my Grandpa’s designated rower.  He had advanced emphysema, plus I think we enjoyed each other’s company in the rowboat.  We would catch stringers full of blue gills – still my favorite eatin’ fish.  We’d bring them home and clean them and Grandma or Mom would fry them up and put them on the table in big piles.  I could eat them hot or cold for breakfast.  I have found a fish called swai that is farmed in Thailand that is close to the taste and texture, and I eat it about once a week.  My mouth is watering as I write!  Guess I don’t have to think about dinner tonight.

I loved to row the boat.  I loved to watch the swirls that the oars would make in the water.   Sometimes I would like to see how fast I could row which would really irritate Grandpa.  He was quite patient with me, and taught me how to put a worm on the hook, how to take the fish off the hook, how to put it on the stringer (which we would hang from the oarlock) and later at home how to clean and scale the fish.  He taught me the difference between a blue gill and a crappie and a bass.  The only thing I didn’t do was take the catfish off the hook, and the only time I ever heard swear words in my young life was when he’d get stung by their nasty whiskers.

There were a few other times I heard him swear, and although these seem like I’m only remembering the bad times, it is merely a testament to his patience.  The first incident was after he had told me a hundred and fifty times not to row so fast.  I don’t remember whether he was trolling or what, but that particular day I was, I guess, feeling rebellious – who was he to tell me how fast I could row?  I was the one rowing.  Bug off.  We had caught ALOT of fish that day, a full stringer and I remember counting them many times as the stringer reached capacity, dreaming of dinner.  Grandpa caught another fish and I took it from him to put it on the stringer – which was gone.  At least twenty delicious blue gills, gone.  Not only gone, but doomed to swim around as a fish necklace until they died.  It was awful.  Grandpa didn’t say anything – he didn’t have to – which was as bad as if he had sworn a blue streak.

The only other time he got mad at me was an October day.  The sun was setting as we went into the dock, and it was getting nippy.  As he unloaded the rowboat, I had taken charge of the stringer of fish.  I was gaily swinging them back and forth, always the dreamer, and they slipped out of my hand, into the water.  The water was about two feet deep, and we could see them swimming around.  Grandpa knelt down on the pier and tried to use his fishing pole to snare them – and in the process slipped and fell into the water.  There he stood, knee deep in cold water, he had the fish, but he swore and did not speak to me on the way home.  I was devastated at his anger and remember not even coming to dinner when Grandma called me.  I pretended I was sleeping.  Of course he had let it go by then, but it sort of hangs with me – he looked so pathetic.  His breathing was very labored by then and it was not a pleasant experience for him I am sure.

He died when I was about thirteen and I cried a lot.   All I have now is a photo of him and me in the rowboat.  He was a gem, and I got to row him around a lake for hours and catch fish.  The time rowing the machine at the gym is quite pleasant when I close my eyes, feel the rhythm, pretend the water is rushing past, hear the ka-clunk of the oars in the oarlocks, and remember Grandpa, mostly smiling and laughing at his silly granddaughter, while we watched our bobbers until they were pulled down into the water, signalling dinner on the other end.